The Christmas Song
by Tuttle4077
Summary: A series of Christmas stories inspired by the (out of order) lyrics of The Christmas Song.
1. Yuletide Carols

Another nap time story.

* * *

Christmas Eve 1941

There was a blizzard outside, and everyone could hear the wind whistling past the windows and doors. Inside the house, the living room was tight and cozy. A healthy fire crackled in the fireplace, casting flickering shadows against the wall. A small decorated tree sat in the corner, its scent reaching out to those close by, competing with the smell of the recently finished meal which still hung in the air.

Dressed in flannel pajamas and with slippers on his feet, Andrew Carter sat on the floor with his legs crossed. His youngest sister, Mary, sat in his lap. He rested his chin on her head and crossed his arms over her waist. A very mature twelve-year-old, she would have usually protested sitting in her big brother's lap, but this time she let it slide and even snuggled in close. The whole Carter clan was gathered together, waiting patiently as their mother put on her glasses and pulled out the family Bible. She rested it on her lap, licked her fingers, and began to flip through its pages.

The matriarch soon cleared her throat and began to read. Slowly. Deliberately. At times she had to pause to clear her throat, getting caught up with emotion.

Andrew knew it wasn't just the story of Christmas that had her all choked up. No, there was something else behind it, and Andrew was to blame. And so every time his mother paused, Andrew looked away. She could barely get out "and on earth peace, goodwill toward men" before turning away and passing the book off to her husband.

There was not much peace in the world right now, that was for sure, Andrew thought. Just over two weeks earlier, America was rocked from its complacency, and thrust into a world war. It had come as a shock to everyone. Although perhaps it shouldn't have.

Back in September of 1940, the government had instituted a peace-time draft. They must have seen the writing in the wall and knew it was only a matter of time before _something_ happened.

A year later, in a twist of fate that was typical of his luck, Andrew had enlisted only a few days before he had received a draft notice. He had come home to help on the farm, and instead of going back to Muncie, he got roped into enlisting instead. Of course, that was the danger one faced when one actually had an uncle named Sam.

It has caused all kinds of headaches for the people filling out his paperwork. And before it was all untangled, he'd gone through two very uncomfortable physicals, been given two different serial numbers, and was nearly demoted to a sergeant. Not that he would have minded. The idea of being a lieutenant- in charge of leading men into battle- terrified him. But unlike most of the recruits who hadn't even graduated high school, he had a college education. And apparently that, as well as his ability to speak German, meant he was leadership material.

His mother, of course, had been upset with him, but it would have happened whether he enlisted or not. And, at the time, war seemed far off- something happening in the other side of the world. So she gave him her blessing and hoped that he would only have to put in the minimum amount of time before being put into the reserves.

And then Pearl Harbor happened and going off to war was not a slight possibility, but an inevitable reality. He remembered his mother writing to him, asking, among other things, if they would see him again before he was shipped off to who knew where. He had assured her that his leave for Christmas was still approved, but it would be cut short. So, tomorrow, after the presents were opened, Andrew would be back in his new uniform, and heading out. If and when he ever returned, was anyone's guess.

The Bible closed with a thud, and Andrew pulled himself back to the present. His father set the book aside and stood up. "It's time for bed," he said gruffly.

"Do we have to?" Andrew's sister, Alice, asked. "This is Andy's last night before-" She cut herself off and looked down at her hands in despair.

"We can stay up for a little bit," mother said, trying to sound cheerful. "Why don't we sing a few carols?"

"Oh yes!" Rebecca cried, clapping her hands as she jumped to her feet. "We might as well while we can. We're going to miss having a male voice when you're gone, Andy!"

"Rebecca!" Julia admonished as she hit the back of her sister's head.

"Ow!"

"Ooo, you're on the naughty list now!" Alice teased.

"There will be no fighting on Christmas Eve!" mother said, exasperated.

"I was only saying that there'll just be us girls!" Rebecca insisted.

"Maybe Dad will sing with us," Mary said hopefully.

"That'll never happen!" Rebecca snorted before lowering her voice to imitate him. "I've got too much work to do to spend my time caterwauling with you girls."

In all the commotion, Andrew saw his father slip out of the room. A moment later he heard the back door open. He debated following him, but decided he better sing a bit if only to quiet the girls down.

Mother sat down at the old piano and, together, the family sang a few Christmas songs. The girls cajoled him into a solo and he sang a few more songs before he excused himself.

Grabbing a heavy jacket and putting on some boots, Andrew went out the back door. Through the blowing snow, he could barely make out the light coming from the barn.

He trudged through the snow and paused just outside the barn. The door was slightly ajar, and even over the wind, he could hear his father talking. As quietly as he could, he pushed the door open a little further and slipped in.

Illuminated by the light of a lantern that hung on the nearby post Dad was resting on a pitchfork that was stuck in a pile of hay. His head was slightly bowed and his eyes were closed. His hat was pressed against his chest with one hand.

Was he praying?

While spiritual, his father wasn't terribly religious. Mother managed to drag him to church every so often, but for him, God was found more in nature than in a building.

"He's smart, but he doesn't know much," Dad said quietly. "And, Lord, you know his luck."

Andrew squirmed. He was praying about him. That didn't surprise him, but he felt awkward eavesdropping. He debated making a noise, but decided against it. Who was he to interrupt a conversation with God?

"Give him the strength of our ancestors, of warriors past. Protect his tender heart. And guide him safely home."

Dad nodded and put his cap back on his head.

"Gee, dad, you didn't say amen," Andrew said after a moment. Dad looked up and Andrew gave him a lopsided grin.

"Do you think he still got the message?" Dad asked.

"Oh, sure. I don't think it much matters, but you know mother- everything's gotta be done by the book."

"Well with seven children and a farm to run, I suppose rules are the only thing between us a chaos. All right then: amen."

"Amen." Andrew grabbed a pitch fork from the corner and began throwing hay into the cattle stalls. His father went back to doing the same. They worked in silence until Andrew cleared his throat. "I'll be okay, Dad. They've put this Little Deer Who Trips and Falls Through Forest in the Air Force," he said with a little snort, adopting the more appropriate version of his Sioux name. "How much trouble can I get into?"

"Perhaps you will be more Swift and Sure in the air," Dad agreed. "But Andrew…"

When he failed to continue, Andrew stopped and stuck his fork into the hay. "Yeah?"

Dad sighed and dropped his own fork before pulling Andrew into a hug. It lasted for only a moment before he cleared his throat and pushed him away, ruffling Andrew's hair. "You just do what you can to end this war quickly and come home. It's not fair to leave me here alone with all these women!"

"Don't worry, Dad. I'll be home before you know it. In the meantime, how do you feel about filling in for me in the Carter Family Choir?"

"Oh, I don't know about that."

"Aw, come on. It's easy: Oh come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant," Andrew sang as he went back to work. His father sighed but joined in after a few bars. Together the two men sang the familiar carols of Christmas, each trying hard not to think that it could be for the last time.

* * *

Few things here: first, Larry Hovis has a beautiful voice. It's a shame we never got to hear Carter really sing, but then again, Hogan's Heroes isn't exactly a musical, is it? If you have the chance though, go to YouTube and look up the Hogan's Heroes Best of WW2 album.

Second, in one episode, Carter said he enlisted because he wanted to get in the war before it got too crowded. In another, he said he was drafted. And, although I don't know if it would even be possible for this situation to happen, I had him do both. I mean, really, Carter does have terrible luck. I might use it in another story to explain how Lieutenant Carter became Sergeant Carter.

And third, this may just be a series of Christmas stories, but it may not be completed by Christmas. (I try to do productive, real life things during nap time. It's only when I'm trapped that I get a chance to write things like this on my phone.)


	2. An Open Fire

Christmas Eve 1940

War didn't stop for Christmas.

Then again, why would it? If it did, the world might ponder on the meaning of peace on earth and goodwill towards men, and the powers that be couldn't have that, could they? Well, perhaps some could, but certainly not that madman in Berlin. And as long as evil men chose to oppress and murder, good men would have to fight back.

From his position behind the right waist gun, Peter Newkirk snorted and pulled his jacket closer. He sounded like a bloody recruitment poster. Well good men, bad men, it didn't matter to him, he thought cynically. Whatever kind of men were in charge didn't change the fact that he was in the belly of a bomber, nearly freezing to death 20,000 bloody feet up on Christmas Eve. 20,000 feet. Cor, not even the flipping birds flew this high.

This was his second Christmas at war. He remembered Mavis telling him when the war first started that it couldn't possibly last past Christmas. Even as she said it, he knew it was nothing more than the optimistic hope of a young woman, albeit one that was shared by many in England. Wars always lasted longer than expected. But he had given her a smile and agreed, telling her he would be home before she knew it.

It hadn't ended that Christmas, it would certainly not be over by tomorrow, and Newkirk highly doubted it would be over next Christmas either.

Newkirk shook his hands and put them under his arms in an attempt to warm them. He was wearing gloves, but at this temperature- forty below zero- they didn't do much. Grabbing his machine gun again, he turned his wrist, trying to catch the face of his watch in whatever light was available. And there wasn't much. A bomber was basically a very noisy, shaky coffin. But he managed to catch a quick enough glimpse to figure they had to be close to their target. No doubt they would face some sort of resistance. They had already flown through some flak earlier and made it through relatively unscathed. Newkirk hoped their luck would hold out.

"Eyes open, lads," Captain McDonnell said over the inter-phone. "Those Kraut bastards'll be on us any minute. Michael, have you got the target?"

"Not yet," Lieutenant Thatcher, the bombardier, replied.

The flak started right on schedule. The black puffs of smoke, standing out even in the darkness of the night, concealed the deadly spray of shrapnel. The plane shook as it flew through the barrage. Newkirk cursed and shied away from the opening. There would be no fighters to shoot down while there was flak, and the last thing he wanted was a face full of shrapnel.

"There it is," Thatcher said. "Steady, steady on. And… bombs away."

Over the din of the wind and flak, Newkirk could barely make out the sound of the bomb bay doors opening. Newkirk craned his neck to look down at the earth below. The ground lit up brilliantly before plumes of smoke masked the fire of the explosions. He couldn't tell if they had actually hit their target- a factory of some sort- but there was still plenty of destruction.

"Happy Christmas you poor buggers," Newkirk whispered to himself. The factory needed to be destroyed, but he felt a pang of pity for the civilians caught in the crossfire. Of course, Jerry had no such pity for the citizens of London. They didn't even pretend to target factories or airfields. No, they dropped their deadly loads right in the heart of London without an ounce of remorse.

Still, Newkirk knew there would be innocent people down there. Women. Children. In war, no one was safe and Newkirk was convinced that everyone lost, even when they won.

At least up here he didn't have to see it personally. The world below him looked like nothing more than a great black mass with darker and lighter patches. He didn't have to see the people running for cover, huddled in shelters, caught up in the explosions.

"Let's go home, lads. We need to be all tucked away before Father Christmas comes to fill our stockings," McDonnell said.

He made it sound easy, but getting home was the most dangerous part of the trip.

The flak stopped and Newkirk gripped his machine gun tightly, swinging around to get a better look through the window. Any minute now.

There. A flash of light. And then a stream of glowing specks- bullets flying towards them. 2,300 rounds per minute if he remembered right from training. Well Newkirk could bloody well dish it out as well.

Newkirk pulled the trigger of his fifty caliber machine gun. The bullets shot out, flying through the air like spurts of dragon's breath. "Hold still you bloody bastard," Newkirk growled. Ah. That was a good bloke. The fighter began to spin out of the sky, streaks of black trailing behind it.

"Good show, Newkirk!" Sergeant Ratcliff cheered over the radio.

"There's another," the tail gunner, Private Smethurst reported. Newkirk scanned the sky and spotted it, letting loose another spray of bullets.

He was a tricky devil this one, and he had a friend. Newkirk tried to track their movement with his gun.

Suddenly, a black plume of smoke clouded his vision and the plane jerked violently. "They got the blasted engine!" McDonnell cried.

"Keep her steady, mate!"

"Get that bastard!"

There was another flash and Newkirk saw flames within the smoke. Another jerk and he heard Smith, the left side waist gunner cry out. "That's another engine!"

Oh bloody hell. Down to two engines. This could really be it then! Newkirk nearly lost his balance as the plane slipped out from under him, suddenly and sharply angling downwards.

McDonnell let out a string of curses. Newkirk joined him. The German fighter, seeing them as easy prey now, swooped down and fired at them again. Newkirk heard metal shredding and a few cries of pain. He looked behind him see Smith slumped down on the ground. Ripping off his oxygen mask, Newkirk abandoned his gun and crawled over to him.

"Come on, mate. Come on, get-" it was no use. Smith was obviously dead.

"It's time to go, Newkirk!" It was Ratcliff. The Sergeant tugged on Newkirk's pack and hauled him to his feet. Then he pried open the side door. Smoke poured into the plane and Newkirk ducked his face into his shoulder. "Let's-"

Another ricochet of bullets rang out and Ratcliff flew back with a spray of blood.

"Come on then." McDonnell pulled Ratcliff away and motioned for Newkirk to get going. Well this was it then. No one at the controls.

Newkirk took a steadying breath and without another thought, threw himself out the door.

The world rushed past him. The roaring wind filled his ears and his eyes watered. He fumbled around his chest until he felt the cord for his chute. A closed his eyes and counted and when he thought he had waited long enough, gave it a tight tug.

His heart leaped into his throat when he suddenly jerked upwards. He looked up, relieved to see his chute opened. But he wasn't safe. Not until he reached the ground in one piece.

Newkirk snorted. What a bloody joke. He would never be safe again, not now.

He scanned the skies and saw another chute. Then another. He waited, but no more appeared. Three. Three out of ten.

There was an explosion as their Bomber burst into flames and fell like a stone past them. A piece of flaming shrapnel broke loose and Newkirk watched in horror as it hit one of the other chutes. The attached man- was it McDonnell?- failed wildly as the fire ate up the chute. And then, his chute gone a no longer slowly his descent, he dropped out of sight. Newkirk looked away.

A ruddy mug's game.

Even with his chute intact, the world was coming up at the dizzying speed. Newkirk wracked his brain, trying to remember his training. How the hell was he supposed to land?

Newkirk looked down. There was an explosion as the bomber finally hit the ground. Flames engulfed the destroyed plane. Newkirk frantically tugged at the chute, trying to change his trajectory. The last thing he needed was to land in the fiery wreckage.

He maneuver worked and he let out a little sigh. He didn't have time to relax though. The ground was awfully close now.

Newkirk landing was less than grateful, and he felt all the air leave his body on impact. Gasping for breath, he lay on the ground as his chute fell over him. Oh bloody hell that hurt.

Taking a minute to gather himself, Newkirk crawled out from under the chute. Then he freed himself from it entirely and looked around.

Blimey. Now what?

A hand landed on his shoulder and Newkirk nearly jumped out of his skin. He whirled around and saw Lieutenant Thatcher. In the light from the fire behind him, Newkirk saw streaks of blood running down the Lieutenant's face.

"Are you all right, Corporal?" Thatcher asked.

Newkirk shook his head to clear it. "Blimey, Lieutenant, I ought to ask you the same ruddy thing."

Thatcher managed a smile. "Come on, we've got to go."

Where? Newkirk thought bitterly. They were in the middle of Germany.

As if to remind him of it, shouts filled the air. Shouts that were decidedly not English. Thatcher pulled out his side arm and looked around. There was a bang and he suddenly fell back. Newkirk cried out and instinctively reached out to grab him. The sudden weight caused him to drop to his knees.

"Lieutenant. Bloody hell, Lieutenant!" Newkirk held the officer in his arms. Thatcher gurgle up blood. Newkirk frantically put his hand over the wound, knowing it was no use. He heard the ground crunch under someone's boots, and he looked up. Two German soldiers towered over him, their rifles inches away from him.

"Hands up," one ordered in heavily accented English. "For you, the war is over."

Newkirk looked down at Thatcher, then over to the burning wreckage of his plane, then back up at the Germans.

"And a happy Christmas to you too."

* * *

What? Tuttle. "An Open Fire" comes before "Yuletide Carols" in The Christmas Song.

Yep. I know. I'm just writing them as I'm inspired. When this is all done, perhaps I will put them all in proper order.


	3. Tiny Tots

Christmas Eve 1943

Air raid sirens wailed, cutting through the crisp afternoon air. Sergeant Rick Olsen looked up, scanning the skies. They weren't here yet, but they would be soon.

It was just one of the dangers that came from being the outside man. Stalag 13, as crummy as the place was, was sheltered from a lot of dangers. Sure they had to worry about the Gestapo, but who didn't? Terrible food? They actually ate better than most civilians.

But one thing they rarely had to worry about was getting blown up. At least not in an air raid. Carter was something of a menace with all his bombs, and more than once he had nearly brought down the camp, but he'd gotten better with time.

Colonel Hogan usually tried to give him a heads-up about any incoming raids, but it wasn't as if he had a complete schedule.

Civilians poured into the street, fleeing their homes and businesses to rush to the closest shelter. Olsen took a moment to lock the door before joining them. It seemed like a silly thing to do, but air raids were the perfect cover for someone desperate and the little grocery shop was the perfect target. Not that a locked door would do much, but it might just make someone pause.

Hurry, hurry Olsen thought as he heard the faint hum of planes. Maintaining an even step despite the approaching planes, Olsen followed the crowd and soon was safe in a shelter under the local Hofbrau. Just in time too.

Everyone looked up. Bombs whistled overhead. There was a pause and the silence made everyone's heart stop. And then the explosions. The ground shook. Dust fell from the ceiling. A child screamed.

It didn't matter how often it happened, an air raid was always terrifying. Any one of those bombs could land right on their heads.

Olsen found himself a place against the wall and leaned back, tipping his hat over his face. He should have left earlier. He was due back in camp tonight. He couldn't miss Christmas- his absence would be too obvious on such a big day. And he didn't like the idea of his temporary replacement being given any letters or packages meant for him.

He became aware, more from instinct than anything, that someone was paying more attention to him than he liked. Olsen peeked out from under his hat. The shelter was crowded, but he finally pinpointed the source. A group of children were looking in his direction and pointing. Olsen recognized them- some local children that he often slipped treats to when Max, the grocer and his faux-uncle, wasn't looking.

Olsen patted his pockets looking for that bag of candies he had taken earlier. He was planning on bringing it back to camp to add to the Schultz bribery supply. But with bombs falling around them, he figured the terrified children would appreciate it more.

Pushing himself up, Olsen picked his way through the crowded basement. "Hello," he greeted the children.

They looked up and smiled at him until another bomb dropped close by. Then they ducked their heads and whimpered.

Olsen crouched down and placed a hand on a little girls shoulder. "It's all right," he said with a stiff smile. He held out the bag and, with a sniffle, she reached in and pulled one out. The other kids crowded closer and Olsen offered them some as well. Pretty quick the other children in the shelter caught wind of his candy bag and mobbed Olsen.

Olsen held the candy up and tried to fend off the children. He was knocked onto his back as one child climbed up onto him.

"Shoo! All of you. Get off Herr Hansen! Where are you manners?"

The children parted and Olsen sat up, brushing himself off. He looked up at his savior. Frau Werner. The young woman had her hands on her hips, giving the children a stern look. Her face softened as she met Olsen's eyes. "Are you all right, Herr Hansen?"

"I'm all right," Olsen assured her.

She nodded and turn her disapproving look to the children again. "Now what do you all say?"

The children looked properly shamed as they uttered their apologies. "But can we still have a candy?" one asked presumptuously. Frau Werner opened her mouth, about to scold them when Olsen laughed.

"One at a time then!" The children obediently lined up and waited their turn. Olsen grinned at the school teacher. "You saved my life, Frau Werner!"

Frau Werner blushed, then laughed. "I do what I can, Herr Hansen."

There was one candy left when the children were all done and Olsen offered it to her. She took it and popped it in her mouth. The children, rather than going back to rejoin their parents, sat down around Olsen. He wondered if it was because they were expecting more treats. Frankly, he wished they would scatter. He didn't mind charming them with treats, but the truth was, children made him nervous. He just didn't know what to do with them.

He rose to his feet and tipped his hat to Frau Werner. "Well then," he said and he turned to leave.

"Herr Hansen!" one of the children cried. "Herr Hansen, tell us a story!"

Olsen arched an eyebrow. "Me?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes! Tell us about Denmark!"

Olsen shifted awkwardly.

"We are to be learning about Denmark in school after the break," Frau Werner explained. "Perhaps you can tell us a little about it."

"Oh, I don't know. We left Denmark when I was very young." Actually, his parents had left before he was even born. And they had moved to America, not Germany.

Colonel Hogan had once told him that the best lies were either so big and preposterous that they had to be believed, or so close to the truth that they were undetectable. To operate on the outside, Olsen went with the latter. Unlike the colonel and the others, his cover wasn't something he could throw off the moment the latest mission was over. No, Olsen had to eat, sleep and breathe Jannik Hansen. Even when he was back in camp, the alias was in the back of his mind.

So it was easiest to make Jannik as close to himself as possible. A Danish immigrant who had come to live and work with his mother's cousin- his "uncle" Max.

The fact that he couldn't speak German without a slight Danish accent might have influenced his decision.

"Oh please, Herr Hansen!"

"Well I- wait. Do you hear that?"

The children, almost in unison, cocked their heads. "I don't hear anything," one said.

"Exactly. The raid is over."

"That was short," one child said happily.

"Yes, they must have moved on to something more important," Olsen said.

"Thank goodness," Frau Werner said with a sigh of relief. "Those barbarians."

"Yeah," Olsen agreed. "Barbarians."

"Maybe, Herr Hansen, you will come to the school one day and tell us about Denmark," Frau Werner said tentatively.

Olsen hesitated. He lived and worked in Hammelburg, but apart from being a friendly face behind the counter of a grocery shop, he didn't really stand out. It worked best that way. He doubted going to a school to talk to a bunch of kids would thrust him into the spotlight, but he couldn't be too careful. Especially since he wasn't convinced that Frau Werner, a newcomer to Hammelburg, wasn't a Gestapo agent. A school teacher would be the perfect cover after all- children tended to talk.

Still, Frau Werner looked so hopeful. And innocent enough. And the children were also eagerly waiting for him to answer. "I'll see what I can do," he finally said. Not a promise, but not a refusal either.

Frau Werner seemed content with that. "Thank you, Herr Hansen."

Olsen nodded. "Merry Christmas, ma'am," he said before moving past her. He checked his watch. He still had time to get back to camp before evening roll call.

He was about to climb the steps when something around his leg stopped him. He looked down to see a little girl hugging him. She looked up at him and beamed. "Thank you for the candy, Herr Hansen!"

Olsen patted her head. "You're welcome." She freed him and scampered off to her family.

Olsen grinned and shook his head. Cute kid.

His smile faded when he got outside and saw the destruction. His shop was still standing, but two of the buildings on the street were reduced to rubble. A family was picking through some of the debris.

Olsen checked his watch again and sighed. He was going to be late, he decided as he went to lend a helping hand.


	4. Santa's On His Way

Christmas 1944

Christmas was never easy for a soldier. Far from home and family, loneliness and homesickness abounded. Being a prisoner of war was even worse. A prisoner was not only far from home, but behind enemy lines, denied freedoms and privileges even the common soldier took for granted.

Letters and parcels, few and far between at the best of times, rarely arrived in time for Christmas, compounding the anxiety. Of course, the boys probably gave each other little presents on Christmas, but it was certainly not the same as receiving a gift from home.

Officially, Sergeant Hans Schultz didn't know anything about the prisoners' extracurricular activities- his famous "I know nothing" kept him safe from awkward and dangerous questioning from his superiors and the Gestapo. But unofficially, Schultz knew that these were no ordinary prisoners. If he were honest with himself, they weren't prisoners at all, free to leave whenever they wanted.

Still, ordinary prisoners or not, they were still stuck in Stalag 13 for Christmas. Schultz couldn't help but feel sorry for them. Many of the men had spent three Christmases or more as prisoners. And every new Christmas wore them down a little more.

Well, not this year.

Perhaps it would be considered giving aid and comfort to the enemy, but Schultz was determined to make this Christmas a little brighter. He justified it by reminding himself that his Christmas scheme had caused the prisoners some extra anxiety in the preceding months.

It had been against regulations. The Geneva Convention. If Colonel Hogan had found out before today, the senior prisoner of war would have probably skinned him alive. But Schultz was not as dumb as he looked. It had taken all his brains and the cooperation of the other, more sympathetic guards, but he had managed to hide his little operation quite well.

Shortly after roll call Schultz gathered his guards together in their quarters. Being Christmas, many were on leave. Schultz had arranged for only those in on the plan to be on duty. They had protested- no one wanted to be there on Christmas, it seemed- saying that they weren't _that_ sympathetic, but Schultz had promised to make it up to them later.

"Is it all organized?" Schultz asked.

"Jawohl, Sergeant," Corporal Langenscheidt said with a nod. "Where should we start?"

"It does not matter, but let's do Barracks Two last," Schultz replied. "But wait, I have to change."

The other guards nodded and Schultz ducked into his own room. It wasn't much, but there had to be some perks to being the sergeant of the guard. Quickly, Schultz shucked off his uniform and grabbed the bright red suit that lay on his bed. A few minutes later he emerged from his room, dressed in a Santa suit, complete with a fake beard.

It was dangerous, of course. If Kommandant Klink should catch him, it could mean punishment. He might even be mad enough to send Schultz to the Russian front. But it was Christmas, and Schultz knew that every Christmas after roll call, Klink slunk back into bed and slept for another few hours until lunch, when he would have an extravagant meal all to himself.

"All right, I am ready," Schultz announced. "Are the prisoners outside?"

From the door, Private Mayer shook his head. "It is cold out. They are all inside."

Schultz grinned. This would mean their arrival in each barracks would be a surprise. He would have to tell them not to send word to Colonel Hogan. How they could do so without leaving their barracks was something that Schultz did not want to contemplate.

Together, the small group of guards made their way out into the compound and to the prisoners' barracks.

Schultz paused outside the first barracks, suddenly second-guessing his plan. He hoped the prisoners would be happy. But what if they were angry? What if they realized that some of their anxiety over the last two months had been because of this? What if they had missed something important, monumental, because of his delay? What if it did more damage than good?

Well, there was only one way to find out. Schultz took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

* * *

Barracks Two. Finally. Schultz hoped his reception there would be just as good as the other barracks. He only had Langenscheidt with him now. The other guards were not needed, and they had left, feeling as happy as Schultz.

Schultz hoped someone was not watching out into the compound. At the other barracks, the prisoners had been surprised. But Barracks Two was not like the others. This hut held Colonel Hogan, and the wily American was always on the lookout for something strange.

But as they approached, Schultz didn't hear or see the door close at all. He didn't hear anyone say anything, or a mad scramble behind the door. Maybe, just maybe, he would pull this off.

"Ready?" Schultz asked. Langensheidt nodded, looking excited. With that, Schultz pushed open the door.

The men of Barracks Two were all asleep. Schultz deflated, suddenly feeling bad for interrupting them. He debated the merits of ducking back out when Newkirk peered down from his bunk.

"Oi, what's all this? Schultzie, is that you?"

"Ho ho ho," Schultz bellowed. "I am Father Christmas! Santa Claus! Der Weihnactsmann!"

"Cor, what are you on about? And what's all that you've got with you?" Newkirk looked confused. The other men in the barracks were also awake now and regarding Schultz curiously.

"Why, your presents, of course," Schultz said with a jolly laugh. "For all the good little boys of Barracks Two."

"Presents?" LeBeau asked, astonished.

"What, from you?" Newkirk asked suspiciously.

"See for yourself," Schultz replied. He motioned to Langenscheidt and together they dumped the contents of their big sacs on the common room table. Carter pushed himself off his bunk and picked up one of the envelopes.

"Hey!" he cried. "It's mail! It's mail from home!"

"What?" Kinch said in surprise. "All of it?"

Carter grabbed a few more envelopes, and a package. "It sure is! And Red Cross packages too! Look at it all! It must be three months' worth!"

"Three months of- hold on one bleeding minute!" Newkirk cried. "Schultz! Have you been keeping our mail from us for three bloody months?"

Schultz ducked his head. He had been worried about this. "I delivered the letters that looked urgent," he explained. "I just wanted you boys to have a good Christmas for once. And what better way than to have letters from your family?"

"And here I was thinking everyone had forgotten me," Kinch said as he grabbed a letter.

"I am sorry," Schultz apologized, feeling guilty.

"What? Sorry?" Carter cried. "Why this is the most mail I've ever seen. We never get mail on Christmas! I always think I'm going to save just one letter to open Christmas morning, but I never do! Oh boy! I wonder if there are any actual Christmas letters in here!"

"Hey, hey, hey." It was Colonel Hogan, coming out of his office. "What is going o- hey, what is all this? Mail?" He sounded surprised, then giddy. "Holy smokes, look at it all!"

It wasn't often that Schultz saw Colonel Hogan lose his composure, but the sheer amount of mail all at once would make even a soldier who wasn't a prisoner excited.

"There's only so much because he's been keeping it from us for months!" Newkirk groused with a scowl. He crossed his arms over his chest and glowered down at Schultz.

"What? How did we not know that?" Colonel Hogan asked.

"I know how to keep a secret, Colonel Hogan," Schultz replied proudly.

"You could have fooled me," LeBeau said with a little laugh.

"You are not mad, Colonel Hogan?" Langenscheidt asked tentatively.

"I should be. Keeping our mail from us," Colonel Hogan said with a tsk. "That's against the Geneva Convention Schultz."

"Well, you have it now," Schultz said. "And I made sure no one opened any of it. It is all there- every envelope and package."

"It sure is," the colonel marvelled.

Schultz put a hand on Colonel Hogan's shoulder. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Schultz," Hogan replied warmly, and Schultz believed that he meant it. Then the colonel turned his attention to the pile. "All right boys, let's dig in!"

A cheer went up and the prisoners descended on the mail.

Schultz and Langenscheidt shared a satisfied look and left the hut. "Merry Christmas, Karl," Schultz said.

"Merry Christmas, Hans."

Schultz thumped him on the back as another cheer went up from inside the barracks.

Mission accomplished.


	5. From One to Ninety Two

Christmas Eve 1999

It was late. Christmas dinner had finally ended, and he was curled up in his favorite chair, a heavy wool blanket covering his lap. The Yule log, cherry wood with a sprinkling of red wine, crackled in the fireplace, and he watched it for a few moments, mesmerized. Taking a deep breath, he filled his nose with the sweet scent and let out a little sigh.

At his feet, his grandchildren played, anxiously waiting for when they could open their presents. They would have to wait, of course, until tomorrow to see what Pѐre Noёl would bring them, but there were certainly enough presents they could open tonight to excite them. Somewhere in the corner, his children and some of his grandchildren were talking. Every once in a while they would throw a furtive glance his way. He tried to listen to what they were saying, but his hearing was not what it once was.

Louis LeBeau glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece. Soon his family would bundle up and head to midnight mass. LeBeau wondered if he could beg it off this year. After all, he had attended many in his life and, at ninety-two, perhaps this year he deserved to stay home in his comfortable chair and go to sleep early.

Ninety-two. Sacré chat, he was old. And now, he was on the verge of entering not just a new century, but a new millennium. It seemed too strange to be real. He wondered what the new era would bring. He had already seen so many things evolve since his youth, that it hardly seemed possible that humanity could go much further.

He wondered too, what would be left in the past. Perhaps the new millennium would finally bring peace. But LeBeau had seen too much war to ever believe that could really happen. People were fools. They never learned.

LeBeau rested his head back against his chair and closed his eyes. His mind wandered back to another time- to a time of war, when he had been a prisoner deep in the heart of Germany. He had secretly been part of the most successful underground operation of the war- responsible for sabotage, intelligence, and helping other prisoners escape. He remembered the sounds, the smell, the fear, the excitement. Oh yes, it had been exciting despite all the constant fear. He remembered the exhilaration of pulling off another successful mission. The hope of freeing his home, his people. The pride of delivering a blow to his enemy.

Perhaps he was a fool too. And perhaps as long as men delighted in heroics, they would always create enemies to fight. Yes, people would always remember how to make war, but they would forget those who fought all the ones before.

A wave of sadness washed over LeBeau as he remembered the men he had fought with. Le colonel. Kinchloe. Carter. Newkirk. Gone. All of them. Gone, and soon to be forgotten, like so much of the past.

Carter had been the first to go. Cancer. LeBeau remembered the phone call from Carter's daughter to tell him. He had been too young. It should not have happened that way.

LeBeau could only guess at what happened to the colonel. He only knew he had died because he had received a call from an American lawyer, informing him that Robert Hogan had left him something in his will. It would not surprise LeBeau at all if the colonel had died in the line of duty somewhere- playing spy games with the Russians.

After that, LeBeau had made every attempt to keep in regular contact with Kinchloe and Newkirk. They had even met together on the odd occasion. And when they got too old to travel, they spoke often on the telephone.

And then one day, Kinchloe missed a phone call. And then another. The third time, Kinch's sweet wife had answered the phone, and had told him he wasn't well. LeBeau had talked to him, had heard the frailty in that once strong voice, and his heart broke. Two weeks later and another phone call delivered the dreaded news: another one gone.

Newkirk, his dearest friend in that horrible place, was the last to go. Though they were both old and cranky, they had been determined to meet together often in person. Most of their time together was spent arguing over food, or trying to cheat each other at cards. Like the old days. They had both outgrown such silly things long ago, but after Kinch's death, it felt like a way to keep the old times alive, and in doing so, it helped keep the others alive in memory.

They reminisced about those times often. They talked endlessly of the missions they completed. Of the girls they fought over. They spoke of Carter and how he annoyed them, and how endearing he really was. They spoke of Kinchloe, and marvelled that he had stayed sane while surrounded by lunatics. And, of course, they spoke of Colonel Hogan, almost reverently- about how he saved them- not only from the Gestapo and other dangers, but had literally saved their souls by giving them purpose when it seemed they were doomed to spend the rest of their lives as helpless prisoners. They sometimes spoke of their time in Stalag 13 before Hogan had arrived, but didn't dwell on it- bad times, they were.

The last time they had met, LeBeau knew. Knew it would be the last time. Cancer again. But Newkirk, never one to show his true feelings, had laughed and smiled, and kept up the pretence that they would meet again the next month. It was only until the very end of the visit that Newkirk dropped the act by folding LeBeau into a long, warm hug. They ignored each other's tears when they said good-bye. It wasn't long after that, and Newkirk was gone. LeBeau had attended his funeral. A small affair. If only more people had known how important Newkirk was.

LeBeau shook his head and rubbed at his eyes. He was the last. The only one, perhaps, who remembered them as they should be remembered- as heroes. And soon, he would follow them, and they and their work would be forgotten completely.

"Papa?" LeBeau looked up to see his son come over and kneel beside his chair. "Papa, it's time for presents."

LeBeau nodded. As the patriarch of the family, it was his duty to hand them out. His son handed him the presents one by one, and he called out the children's names. Eventually there was one left. LeBeau looked at the tag. It was for him.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Open it, Papa," his son, Pierre, laughed.

LeBeau turned it over in his hands. It had to be a book, he decided. He grimaced. His eyes were not as good as they once were; he wasn't sure he wanted a book. With a little sigh he tore off the paper and peered at the cover. There was a picture of him and the other men of Stalag 13. And above it, an English title.

 _Hogan's Heroes- the Prisoners' Underground_

LeBeau looked at the title. Then he blinked and looked again. "What is this?" he asked.

"We wanted to ask you the same thing!" Pierre said. "I saw it while on business in America."

LeBeau turned the book over and skimmed the summary on the back. His heart thumped. The Americans had declassified Stalag 13! Why had no one told him?

"Did you read it?" LeBeau asked, still surprised by the book in his hands.

"Yes! Tell me, Papa, is all this true?" Pierre asked, sounding amazed.

"I do not know what it says yet!" LeBeau said with a little laugh.

"But, you were a saboteur?" Pierre pressed. By now his entire family, who no doubt had at least heard of the book and its contents, were gathered at his feet, watching him eagerly.

"Oh yes," LeBeau admitted. "Yes, we did many things at Stalag 13, my friends and I."

"Tell us, grandfather!" one of his younger grandchildren said eagerly.

LeBeau glanced at the clock. "We will be late for Mass."

"Mass can wait, Papa. Please, tell us."

LeBeau grinned and settled back into his chair. Then, to all his family, from his smallest great grandchild to his oldest son, he began to tell his story. And as they listened intently, he grinned. Carter. Hogan. Kinch. Newkirk. They would be joining him into the new millennium- he would make sure no one forgot them.

* * *

AN: Hey, folks. If you haven't had the chance, please join us in the forums. More specifically, the Toot Your Own Horn topic under Forum XIII. We're having some lively discussions there, and we would love to hear from you!


	6. Dressed Up Like Eskimos

Christmas 1944

There was some sort of commotion outside in the main room. Colonel Robert Hogan groaned as he rubbed his eyes. "Peace on earth," he grumbled. "I can't even get five minutes of sleep." With a stretch and a yawn, Hogan pulled himself up, and then jumped off his bunk. He held the side of his bed for a minute and shook his head to clear it. Whatever was going on out there had better be good.

"Hey, hey, hey," he said as he came out of his office. "What's going o-" He cut himself off as his brain tried to catch up with his eyes. Schultz and Corporal Langenscheidt were there, the former dressed as Santa Claus. Piled high on the table were letters and parcels, more than he had ever seen at one time. "Hey, what is all this? Mail?" He blinked. Yes, it had to be mail. "Holy smokes! Look at it all!"

"There's only so much because he's been keeping it from us for three bloody months!" Newkirk informed him sourly.

"What? How did we not know that?" There was no way Schultz could keep a secret like that from them. Was there? Hogan shook his head. The last few months had been busy. And they had received a few pieces of mail here and there. And Red Cross packages too. Maybe Schultz had given them enough to keep them from being suspicious.

"I know how to keep a secret, Colonel Hogan," Schultz said and Hogan pegged him with a curious gaze. Well, wonders never ceased.

"You could have fooled me!" LeBeau laughed

"You are not mad, Colonel Hogan?" Corporal Langenscheidt asked.

Hogan paused. Was he? After all, three months was a long time to go without mail. And those Red Cross packages would have come in handy. Still, seeing a whole pile of presents and letters on Christmas morning made it hard to be mad. In fact, if he was honest with himself, Hogan was downright giddy. He hadn't been this excited on Christmas morning since he was a kid.

"I should be," he said finally. "Keeping mail from us. That's against the Geneva Convention, Schultz."

"Well you have it now. And I made sure no one opened any of it. It's all there—every envelop and package," Schultz said.

"It sure is."

Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder and he glanced up at Schultz. The big man dressed in red smiled down at him fondly and Hogan couldn't help but think that perhaps Schultz deserved the code name Papa Bear more than he did. Fortunes of war had decreed Schultz was their enemy, but it was in name only. The big guy didn't even know the meaning of the word.

"Merry Christmas," Schultz said.

"Merry Christmas, Schultz," Hogan replied. Schultz nodded and beckoned Langenscheidt to follow him out. Colonel Hogan turned his attention to the pile of mail. "All right boys, let's dig in!" The men let out a few whoops and hollers, but Hogan held up a hand before they could descend on the pile. "All right hold it! Let's not act like a bunch of savages. Carter, Kinch, divvy them out. Set the Red Cross parcels to the side- we'll deal with them later."

"No problem, boy!" Carter said, apparently too excited to add a sir. He and Kinch began digging through the pile, sorting them into piles.

From his bunk, Newkirk let out a snort and turned away to face the wall. "Just leave my flipping letter on the end of my bed," he grumbled before covering himself with his blanket.

A half frown tugged at Hogan's face as he watched the corporal. Newkirk rarely got into the Christmas spirit. And the promise of mail didn't hold much sway for him either. The truth was, he hardly got any mail around the holidays. Hogan opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it.

"This is for you, Colonel," Kinch said as he handed Hogan a few letters and a small package. "There may be more. Do you want to wait for the rest?"

"I'll come back later," Hogan said as he tapped his letters in the air. Tucking his package under his arm, he ambled back to his office. Hogan tossed his letters onto his desk and then set the package down.

"Which one first?" Hogan twirled his finger and finally grabbed the closest envelop to him. A quick glance at the return address told him it was from his cousin, Thomas. Hogan scrunched his nose. Thomas was stationed somewhere in the Pacific which meant that after going through the gamut of censors, there was probably not much to it. Oh well. Better to start with this one than end with it.

Hogan settled into his chair and ripped open the envelop with his finger. His eyes widened. It was a Christmas miracle. Hogan didn't see much censorship at all.

 _Dear Rob,_

 _If the army is as efficient as I think it is, this letter might get to you by Christmas; it's - - - - - - - now. It's funny to think that by the time you get this (whenever that is) you'll be covered in snow. Christmas time here is as hotter than hell. And the humidity, yech. The boys keep telling me it'll give me a chance to work on my sunburn. Hilarious._

 _They think they're so clever, but I gotta tell you a story. You'd think with how busy we are, we wouldn't have time to get tangled up in gossip. Especially not ridiculous gossip. But apparently not. You're not going to believe this, Rob, but I swear it's true._

 _See, a few weeks ago we got word that Nazis, dressed as Eskimos, had overrun - - - - - - - - . I don't know how this rumor got started, but as crazy as it was, half my men believed it! They were so convinced that they started hoarding canned salmon! It was nuts! Here we are in - - - - - - - where we are surrounded by fresh fish, and there were outright brawls over canned salmon! I think the heat is melting our brains._

 _So as bad as it is to be POW, be grateful for snow, Robbo. Yeah, I know. Not much of a consolation prize. But I tell you, I miss snow on Christmas. So if you get the chance, toss a snowball for me._

 _I gotta cut this short. Maybe I'll get back to it later before I send it off. Miss you. Pray for you. The whole drill._

 _-Tom_

Hogan folded the letter and shook his head. Now that was a new one. Nazis dressing as Eskimos, invading somewhere stateside. Real or not, and it most definitely was not, it sounded like something he would try to pull over on someone. Hogan briefly wondered if he had a German counterpart wreaking havoc on the Allies, but shook the thought from him head. Rumors had a way of coming to life and taking off, even without help.

But maybe he'd store the Eskimo idea away for some other time. Who knew when it would come in handy.


	7. Hard to Sleep Tonight

Happy birthday to me. And here's a present for you: a new chapter!

* * *

Christmas Eve 1943

Underneath the toughest POW camp in all of Germany lay a network of tunnels so vast and complex that it would stagger the imagination. The tunnels housed everything an underground organization needed: a machine shop that made souvenir lighters, a chemical lab for creating bombs, a forgery unit that churned out German money by the baleful, and a radio room that provided constant contact with the outside world as far away as London.

All were silent. Even the radio was off. But Sergeant James Ivan Kinchloe sat next to it anyway. Waiting.

Always waiting.

Because even though the machines and the printing press were all asleep, the sabotage unit never really stopped working. And right now, there were five men outside the wire. Until they returned, Kinch would be waiting right there.

Kinch eased back in his chair and propped his feet up on his desk. He debated the merits of getting some shut eye, but figured it was a lost cause. Until everyone was back safe and sound, he knew it was no use. Not only would worry rob him of a decent rest, but it wouldn't surprise him if everyone arrived at different times, just far enough apart for him to flirt with sleep before being awaken again.

A noise somewhere down one of the passages seemed to prove his point. Kinch let his feet fall to the floor and he sat up straight. He strained his ears to try a hear who it was. Or rather, what it was. It sounded like clacking. Or maybe a barking cough. Or-

Grabbing a revolver, Kinch jumped to his feet as the noise got closer. He lowered it when he saw LeBeau appear from the darkness. Slung over his shoulder was a gunny sack with bird feet poking out the end.

"Hush, hush my little ones," LeBeau chided as he tugged at the bag. This just made the birds angry and they squawked louder.

"LeBeau, what is that?" Kinch asked as he lowered his gun and set it on the table.

"Pheasants!" LeBeau replied happily. "For Christmas dinner tomorrow!"

"Pheasants?" Kinch repeated. "Live pheasants?" It was a dumb question to ask. They were obviously alive. The better question would have been how LeBeau had managed to get them back to camp and into the tunnels without bringing every patrol and guard down on him.

"Of course!" LeBeau cried somewhat indignantly. "I will kill them tomorrow so they will be the most fresh they can be!"

"And just where are you planning on keeping them?"

LeBeau grinned. "Do not worry. I have been planning this for weeks. I have the most perfect spot." And with that, LeBeau disappeared down another passageway. Kinch shook his head with a grin. A couple of pheasants for Christmas dinner. Kinch had no idea where and how LeBeau had procured them, but he knew it hadn't been as simple as requesting them from London.

A few minutes later, LeBeau was back in the radio room, dusting off his hands. "C'est bon. We will have a feast tomorrow!" He checked his watch. "Are the others back yet?"

Kinch shook his head. "Not yet."

LeBeau looked down the tunnel, them up the ladder to the barracks above. "Do you want me to wait with you?"

"Nah, it's late," Kinch replied. "You go hit the hay. I'll wait up."

"All right then," LeBeau said with a nod. "Merci, Kinch."

"C'est rien. Get going, huh."

"Oui. I will go." And with that, LeBeau clambered up the ladder and out of sight.

Kinch settled back in his chair. He could faintly hear the pheasants and he wondered what they might taste like.

His thoughts drifted to other things and after a while, Kinch was skimming the edge of sleep when another arrival pulled him back to consciousness. Just as he thought- no rest for him until they were all back.

Kinch leaned forward in his chair, waiting to see who it was. A giddy whoop told him it must be Carter and Newkirk, back from blowing up a bridge. Sure enough, the two rounded the corner a moment later.

"Hey Kinch!" Carter greeted brightly. "We're back. And boy, did you miss out on a great explosion!"

Kinch hid a grimace. He didn't need to be reminded that, yet again, he had missed out on something big. It was his lot in life- or at least in the operation. Sure he got to go on some missions outside the wire, but they were few and far between. But when it came down to it, his place was in the background, holding down the fort.

"Did everything go okay?" Kinch asked, shaking off the disgruntled thoughts.

"Piece of pie," Carter assured him.

"Had a bit of trouble getting back but nothing we couldn't handle," Newkirk amended, shooting a pointed look at Carter.

"Oh? What kind of trouble?" Kinch asked.

"Later," Newkirk said dismissively. "Any trouble here after the explosion?"

Kinch frowned. Later usually meant never. He had lost count of the number of times the guys had told him they would explain later, only to forget. As integral as he seemed to be to the operation, Kinch didn't know half of what went on- or at least, he didn't know half the details of what actually happened outside the wire.

"Kinch?" Carter asked when Kinch remained silent.

"Oh, um, no. We barely heard it. It was too far away to stir up trouble here."

"Well that's a bit of luck," Newkirk said flatly. He checked his watch. "Cor, it's late. Is everyone else back yet?"

"Still waiting on the Colonel and Olsen," Kinch replied.

"Do you want us to wait with you? Keep you company?" Carter asked as he sat on the corner of Kinch's desk.

"No, that's okay. You guys head up and get some sleep."

"You sure?" Carter asked.

"The man already said no," Newkirk said. He slapped Carter's knee then jerked his thumb towards the ladder. "Let's go, mate. Night Kinch."

"Good night," Kinch said as Newkirk and Carter made their way up the ladder.

With a sigh, Kinch retired back to his chair. Three down, two to go. He tried not to let Carter's comments bug him. After all, the other Sergeant hadn't meant any harm. But it was small, seemingly inconsequential statements like that that really made Kinch question his place on the team. If he left tomorrow, the operation would continue on unaffected. Would anyone even notice he was gone?

Kinch mulled over his gloomy thoughts until he picked up the sounds of another set of footsteps coming down the tunnel. Kinch couldn't quite tell who they belonged to, but with a fifty-fifty chance, he guessed Olsen.

Instead Colonel Hogan soon came into view. The Colonel looked worried. No, that wasn't quite right. He looked perplexed, Kinch decided. Unsettled. Whatever it was, something was on the Colonels mind.

"Hi Colonel," Kinch greeted. "Everything all right?"

"What? Oh, yeah. Fine, Kinch, fine." Hogan said absently, but it was clear to Kinch that he was simply brushing off the question.

"You sure?"

"Yeah I just-" Hogan cut himself off with a huff and plastered a grin on his face. "I'm okay, Kinch. Just need some sleep to clear my head."

"Did you get what you needed from the underground?" Kinch pressed.

Hogan produced a roll of film from his pocket and tossed it to Kinch who easily caught it. "We'll develop it tomorrow. It's too late tonight."

Kinch nodded and set the film down. "You sure you're all right, Colonel?"

"Fine, fine. Everyone in for the night?"

"All except Olsen," Kinch reported.

Hogan glanced at his watch. "You think he's okay?" he asked, suddenly worried. "There was a bit of a raid on Hammelburg this afternoon, maybe he-"

"No, he sent a message. He's okay, just going to be later than expected," Kinch assured his commanding officer.

"Hmmm. All right, let's get up top."

"If it's all the same to you, Colonel, I think I'll wait up for him," Kinch replied. It was his job, after all, to wait. To wait until everyone was home safe and sound. To wait just in case they took too long and he had to organize a search party.

Hogan looked down the tunnel, the back at his watch. "I'll wait with you."

"Thanks, Colonel. But I think I'll just go develop the film now. Besides, there's no sense in both of us staying up."

Hogan tilted his head from side to side, then shrugged. "Fine. But don't wait too long. Olsen's a big boy. If he doesn't come back tonight, he'll have a reason."

"Sure. Good night, Colonel."

"Night, Kinch."

After Hogan left, Kinch grabbed the film and went to process it. He got back just in time to find Olsen trudging into the radio room. He looked tired and worn and more than a little dirty.

"Olsen? You all right?"

Olsen let out a little sigh. "Fine. Just spent the night digging out my neighbours." He gave Kinch a weak smile. "Not much of a merry Christmas in Hammelburg tonight. So," he pressed on before Kinch could get a word in, "is everyone else in the for night?"

"Yeah. The Colonel just got back an hour or so ago. You're the last one."

Olsen regarded him curiously. "Waiting up for me?"

Kinch couldn't help but sigh. "That's my job. LeBeau snags pheasants, Carter and Newkirk blow up bridges, the Colonel meets with the underground, and I wait." He regretted the bitterness in his voice; this wasn't really something he wanted to discuss with Olsen. Or anyone for that matter. Kinch looked away from Olsen's gaze. "Never mind."

But Olsen still had him fixed with a thoughtful look. "You know, sometimes it takes someone on the outside looking in to see the problem."

"I know the problem," Kinch said flatly as he gestured to himself. "I can't exactly pass for German. Hell, I can't even pass for a Dane."

Olsen half-grinned. "Well, don't beat yourself up over that- not even the Colonel could pull off a convincing Dane." Olsen's expression became serious again. "Look I know how you feel. Left out of the action. Being part of the group, but not quite."

"You're in on the action, Olsen," Kinch said tersely. In fact, Olsen was right in the thick of it- far more than any of them. Sure the Colonel and the others put their lives on the line nearly every day, but Olsen lived on the outside- he was in danger every minute.

"Not really. You may not believe this, but life outside is pretty boring." Kinch didn't quite believe him. "And I don't get to spend much time with, well, anyone. Except Max. And let me tell you, he's not great company. He's not even good company."

Now that Kinch believed. "I guess that must get lonely," Kinch said. Maybe Olsen did know how he felt.

"Tell me something: how many of the guys offered to stay down here with you?" Olsen asked. Before Kinch could answer, he continued. "And how many times did you turn them down?" Olsen's questions, which weren't really questions, felt like a slap, and Kinch ducked his head. "If you're feeling lonely, Kinch, maybe it's because you want to be lonely."

Kinch was about to reply, but stopped short. Was that true? And if it was, why? Kinch wasn't a very social man, but be didn't like being alone. But it was true- he had declined company tonight, while at the same time wishing he was part of the group.

"Maybe it's none of my business Kinch, but it's hard to feel a part of things when you push people away." Olsen paused, then knocked on Kinch's desk. "Well, it's late, or early, and I hear Santa only comes when all the good little boys and girls are asleep." He checked his watch. "Too late to bring down my replacement. What's his name? Walldecker? Anyway do me a favor and send him down before roll call. I gotta hit the sack."

Kinch wasn't sure if Olsen's quick getaway was because he was uncomfortable, or he simply wanted Kinch to stew in his thoughts. Either way, the outside man didn't look like he was going to stick around.

"Night, Kinch. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Olsen," he replied. Olsen nodded and then ducked down a side tunnel to one of the private rooms.

All alone, Kinch stood next to his desk, pondering what Olsen had said. His role in the operation was a passive one and that grated on him. But if he wasn't careful, bitterness would stop his participation altogether. And it wasn't like it was anyone's fault, so there was no need to push them away. Saboteurs or not, they were all stuck together at Stalag 13, and that was not something anyone should go through alone.

So maybe next time, Kinch would welcome the company. It wouldn't change the big things. He'd still be left behind on missions, he'd still be tasked with holding down the fort, but maybe if he reached out a little more, he wouldn't feel left out. These were good men he worked with, and it couldn't hurt to let them into his life a little.

"All right. Time to join the team." Kinch nodded to himself, then climbed up to the barracks. Everyone was asleep when he got there. "Tomorrow," he amended in a whisper as he crawled into bed. Though roll call was only a few hours away, Kinch couldn't get to sleep, and he lay awake for quite some time, thinking- alone once again with his thoughts.


End file.
